Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Close Encounters of the Third Child

Let me just say that I love my littlest baby girl with my whole being.  But: oh-sweet-lord-above.

Now that I'm home all.the.freaking.time. with the kids (love them...seriously, I do.  but sometimes...*twitch* *twitch*), I'm getting to see a whole different perspective on this 'toddler' phase than when I worked full time and they spent time in daycare.  Ok, I'm 95% convinced it's because Raegan is a completely different toddler than Gavin or Brynn were.  I remember when I had Raegan, and called my mom to tell her.  She honestly didn't believe me when I said, "it's a girl!".  She, (along with practically everyone else in my family--and most of my friends) assumed I was having a boy because I was (as she put it) "so calm and relaxed during your pregnancy".  She figured if I knew I was having another girl (Randy and I were the only ones who knew) that I'd be a little more 'uppity', knowing just how *unique* (read: exhausting) Brynn is.  My response to her was that I knew there's no way there can be another Brynn.

And, in the nearly 2 years since making that statement...I can honestly say this:


In the six years I've been a mom, I've read my fair share of parenting articles, blog posts, discussion board threads, and humorous parenting confessions (as well as shared a few of my own!).  I can remember as a 'new mom', reading advice columns in parenting magazines (I wasn't as 'facebook-y' or 'bloggy' as I am nowadays!).  There were parents writing in with questions about their toddlers, asking for advice or sharing details about their little holy terrors who would climb walls, wreak absolute havoc, and leave their parents reaching out to anyonewhowouldlisten!  I couldn't offer advice based on experience, because I was raising the polar opposite of those children.  If Gavin did anything remotely close to being considered 'naughty', he would put himself into time out!  My sweet and cautious boy rarely did anything that he thought could potentially get him into trouble, let alone give anyone cause to raise a distasteful eyebrow in his direction.  Even now, he is very conscientious of what response his actions will illicit, and will (most of the time) adapt and adjust if he senses disappointment.  (Of course, boys will be boys...and he does have two little sisters to tease.)  But, overall, he's a pretty outstanding kid, one whom teachers have said they'd like to make photocopies of to fill the seats of their classrooms.  As a fellow (currently dormant) teacher, that's quite the compliment.  I think we'll keep him.

When Brynn came along, I began to realize how different two kids from the same set of parents can be.  I began to realize how different raising a daughter will be.  I began to realize how different Brynn at 12:05 p.m. and Brynn at 12:06 p.m. can be.  And, I began to realize how tripping on acid might be.  Honestly.  Love her as I may, the girl is a complete and utter spazz at times.  Her curly hair (that, ironically enough she did not have as a toddler) is just the apex of what is one of the most bubbly, bouncy, devil-may-care, hysterical, free-spirited-but-be-careful-she-turns-on-a-dime girls I've ever met.  She's been that way since early toddler-hood (when, in my opinion, kids really start to refine the key features of their little personalities), and with each passing year, she only becomes more bouncy (in hair and footstep), and more Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde.  I'm currently seeking out temporary housing for her during the pre-teen/early teen years.  Hell, make it all the teenage years.  I remember my teen years.  (Godhelpmenow).

(Insert highly dramatic pause, followed by a crescendo of the theme from Halloween)

Enter Raegan.

Remember how I told my mom I was calm because I knew there couldn't be another Brynn?  I was right,  but not in the way I had intended to be.  I honestly thought that Brynn's trippy view of life could not be duplicated, that there was no way I'd be blessed with two daughters who tried my patience daily by hop-scotching through questions and statements in a completely pattern-less, asinine fashion.  And boy, was I right.

In a funny-to-some-people twist of fate, I was blessed with a third child who could not be more different than her sibling counterparts.  I mean, I know the kids are all unique.  I've figured that out in about minute 12 of being a 2-kid mom, and have been working to put together the puzzle pieces (without having the box to show the final image) ever since.

But wow.  I got a curve ball when I was expecting a slider.  "Third babies are easy", they say.  "They have no choice but to just 'go with the flow' and fit in to the groove of the family", they say.  "She'll be an easy-going kid who goes with the flow", THEY say.

To all of you 'THEYS' out there, I say this:

kiss. my. pizza-sauce-covered. a**.

Allow me to explain the whole 'sauce' thing in haiku:

Pizza for dinner
Unsuspecting mom sat down
She hides food on chairs

(go ahead...I'll let you check my work.  Trust me, it follows the 5-7-5 syllable pattern.  While I wrote it, I had a headache-inducing flashback of my classroom full of 28 young poets clapping and accentuating e-ver-y-sin-gle-syl-la-ble.  Love teaching poetry...rue the day I had to teach haiku).

There was a time in my life when having a 'saucy tush' meant something completely different, and to be honest, it was what landed me the handsome guy I call 'hubby' today.  But that's another story.  Now, my saucy posterior represents a small fraction of the *fun surprises* my almost-two year old arranges for me each day.

What is it about certain aspects of the 'big kid and mommy world' that intrigues toddlers so much that they feel compelled to partake, thus resulting in several potential outcomes:
a.) a loudly shrieked "NOOOO!", followed by an instantaneous pouty toddler lip and drippy toddler tears (which, I can proudly say, have lost their effect on me).
b.) feeling the need to physically remove oneself from the situation to either express blood-curdling frustration, or maniacal laughter at the antics just witnessed
c.) promptly locating the nearest tequila shot to down or corner to rock in (while drinking tequila).

On a daily basis, you can place a safe bet that I've responded in each of the ways listed above, multiple times, and have moved into responses that I didn't even know existed (and, at the risk of being whisked away by the nearest physch ward, I'll keep those under wraps).

While Raegan isn't breaching the level of Problem Child, she has comfortably settled into a role equatable to that of Dennis the Menace.  A sweet, lovable girl, with an indigenous curiosity, who just-so-happens to have a penchant for mischief.  Lots.of.mischief.

For a not-quite-two year old, she's literally scaled formidable elevations to attain her goal of locating every single marker within a 20-foot radius of our house.  Equaling her affiliation with markers is her interest in all things 'mommy'.  Specifically, anything I use to 'get ready' for the day.  While lip gloss has an obvious allure, mascara has now breached the top-ten list of things she likes to seek out and (attempt to) apply.  As does deodorant.  The girl could star in an advertisement for Secret, demonstrating the style she's created for applying it to her underarms.  Let's not even get into her curiosity about the tampon.

In Raegan's eyes, the kitchen is a full-service theme park, all geared toward her personally perfected art of mess-making.  Olive oil and soy sauce have each held starring roles in a toddler-sized 'slip and slide', and whole boxes of cereal are no match for tiny, nimble fingers who expertly tear open the celo-bag inside to release the contents in a monsoon of whole-grain glory.  And let's not even address how many different surfaces in the house the dish soap wand has cleaned besides my Calphalon pans. (Note to self: buy more Scotch-Brite sponge attachments)

The couches and beds are obvious trampolines, but did you know that the washer is a great place to hide mommy's glasses?  Sure, walls and doors make great surfaces for markers and crayons, but how about taking 40+ movies out of their cases all at the same time, and then trying to 'clean' them by licking all of them?  And who doesn't love messing up three entire loads of folded laundry just waiting to be put back into their respective drawers?  But, if you want to really get mommy's blood pumping, just sneak a (full)bag of shredded cheese from the counter when she's getting the pan out for the pizzas, and leave random strands of mozzarella *ALL* over the house as you take a tour of your domain while you snack on your bounty.

She's not even 2.  Already, she's perfected the 'ornery giggle and mad dash in the opposite direction', the 'hide and keep extremely quiet', and the 'deny, deny, deny' methods.  In addition, to avoid trouble, she's working on the 'daddy pout', the 'kiss-me-and-hug-me-and-cuddle-me, and the 'sawwyy, ruv yewww'.

And she's not.even.2.

Parents, friends, and, yes, even mom:  How is it that in less than 5 year's time, I've shifted from feeling sorry for the parents in the advice columns to becoming the parent in the advice column, seeking guidance (and the nearest bottle of Cuervo)?  Really, I never rubbed it in anyone's face that I never had a child experience the 'terrible twos'.  I sympathized, yet could not empathize or commiserate.  And now...well, now...there's a marker-covered toddler snoring in my bed who is on a life mission to be loved by her momma.  How can I make her understand the writing on the wall (literally) and see that I love her to the moon and back...but if she keeps this up, she might get to see what the moon is like first-hand?

*in all actuality, I'm not necessarily seeking advice.  It's not to say I don't want it/can't use it/don't need it.  I look at life with Raegan (all my kids, really...but especially Raegan), as the ticket to my personal success.  To say 'I survived Hurrican Raegan'--a name I will strongly suggest to the National Weather Service for this year's season--will give me a sense of personal pride, a slew of hysterical stories (of the likes I'll share with you), and possibly, quite possibly a stash of Valium that should carry me well into my 50's.  I'm kidding, I'm kidding.

(It'll take me well into my 70's!)

Sunday, February 24, 2013

I am not a cheetah

Last week, Randy was out of town, in Colorado.  Aside from the feelings of envy as my husband enjoyed the beauty of the Rockies in our 'home state', I was feeling overwhelmed by the reminder of what it was like to fly solo as a quasi-single momma.  Add in the horrible sinus infection I battled, and the 1-2 punch of an ear infection and two-year molars that Raegan was coping with, and you can imagine it was a pretty crazy week.

My dear friend Sue had visited last weekend for the holiday weekend, and after she left Tuesday morning, I made the executive decision that we would spend the rest of our week (at least until we felt better), holed up on the couch, enjoying quick and easy meals like french toast, hamburger helper (bleh), frozen pizza, and cereal.  Cleaning was on an 'as-needed' basis, Disney movies and the Food Network were at our beckon call, and boxes and bottles of medication peppered the countertop in the kitchen.  Ideally, it would have been a glorious couple of days where I could relax, unwind, read, snooze, and catch up on the list of shows in our DVR.

But when you factor kids into the equation, the glory days are over.  Sick and solo parenting isn't a 'new thing' for me, I've been down the road before.  But a solid week of sick and solo parenting after several months of not having to solo parent at all (save one overnight trip to North Dakota) can wear on anyone.

Any mommy knows that no matter how much you love your cubs, sometimes you just need to leave the burrow solo (or, go to a different part of the burrow) in order to maintain sanity.  With my own little personal velcro (a.k.a. Raegan), I find it becoming increasingly difficult to do that.  It seems the older she gets, the more attached she becomes (a phenomena I didn't think was possible, but her goal in life is to prove me wrong).  This past week was of course no exception, since she didn't feel well (strike 1), has never been what is considered a 'good sleeper' (strike 2) and was missing her daddy (strike 3--my sanity's out).

With the collection of sinus cold meds I was taking, and both of our terrible coughs, I felt it was easiest to let my littlest munchkin sleep with me while Randy was gone (plus, it's lonely on the first floor without him!).  ***I know this is the perfect opportunity for my mother to interject that I'm 'creating my own monster' by allowing Raegan to do this, but I also know that some day I'll miss this, so I'm playing the odds that I won't someday have a middle schooler who insists on a middle of the night bottle while cuddled in mom's bed.  (Although, I'm fairly certain that even then, I'd give in to her cuteness).

So with the entire day spent cuddling, couch sitting, and movie watching, along with the whole night spent cuddling, being kicked, and tossing and turning; I had no respite.  And any mom can tell you that with toddlers, using the restroom or taking a shower are no longer sacred activities.  Nothing, not a single activity, becomes a solo stint.  Even as I type this, all three kids are chasing each other through the office.

With Randy home, there's the opportunity to dash off to shower without the kids (ahem, Raegan) noticing my absence.  Otherwise, she's clinging, following, climbing my leg, or hanging off my hip.  While I love the fact that I'm pretty much the center of her colorful little universe...


When I'm sick, I'm one of those 'don't-touch-me-leave-me-alone-but-bring-me-soup-and-gatorade-and-crackers-when-I-need-them' sort of girls.  Raegan, sweet girl that she is, is the opposite.  And that's ok.  But there came a point on Thursday when I just needed a break.  She was happily entertained by Despicable Me on the tv, so I slipped off the couch to fold a load of laundry that had just finished it's seventh or eighth 'air fluff' cycle in the dryer (my saving grace for those times when pairing socks and folding superhero underwear sounds like some form of cruel and unusual punishment).  I quietly pulled the basket into my bedroom, clicked on the tv to something that did not feature cartoon characters, or mind-numbing puppets dancing around in random patterns.  I dumped the basket on the bed, figuring this would force me to complete the task if I wanted to sleep in the bed later.  As I sorted and folded, I plopped down and settled into the comfort of the perfect pillow arrangement I'd crafted from both Randy and my pillows (a bonus to having him out of town--sleeping in a virtual cloud of pillows).  I assessed the status of my appearance, and realized that the random mesh of yoga pants, cami, tee, half-zipped hoodie, pale and mascara-less face, and questionable hair 'style' (for lack of a better term) deemed me worthy of a shower and a fresh change of clothes (into sweats, of course).

That's when I heard her.


The dream of cleanliness and feeling a little closer to 'normal' evaporated as quickly as my desire to continue folding the clothes that littered my bed had.  I thought fast.  In one fluid movement, I pounced and landed at the threshold to my bedroom with hopes of arriving fast enough to close the door, and then retreat into my closet to hide, just for five.more.minutes.  My head nearly exploded from the combination of rapid movement and sinuses that were ready to throw in the white flag, but it was worth the moment or two I nearly blacked out from the pain to attempt my cheetah-esque maneuver and achieve a few minutes more of sweet, blissful peace.

My moves were surprisingly fast enough, despite my horrendous state of disrepair, and the door was clicked shut before she entered into the hallway leading to my room.  But she was gaining speed, and hearing the click of the door was a solid giveaway as to my location.  I thought fast.  The closet was an obvious spot; she's found me sitting cross-legged on the floor many times, continuing phone conversations that had previously been cut-off by her incessant whining.  So, I did what any cheetah would do: I camouflaged.

My sloppy and hap-hazard appearance matched well with the random array of clothes strewn across the king-sized bed.  So, I hopped on.  I pulled my hood up and sank down into the plush arrangement of pillows.  I 'fluffed' the clothes that I actually had folded (crap, now I have to re-fold), and lay still.  My breath was shallow as the door clicked open and a little, dirty blonde head bounded in, giggling with each bounce.  She ran past the bed, rounded into the bathroom and headed toward the closet, shouting 'Mommmmmayyyy!' in a breathy, cough-laden way.

When her search proved fruitless, she came back through the bathroom and stood next to the bed.  Her tone changed, and, although I didn't see her face, I knew what it looked like.  Her pouty, lower lip was sticking out as her shouts quieted to a questioning little whimper.  "Mommy???"  She was concerned, worried that her other half had gone missing; lost like a sock in the dryer.

Ugh.  Tug at my heartstrings, would ya?  She whimpered one final, desperate plea for my return, and with that, I caved.  My creative (and successful) new hiding spot was exposed as I sat up and pushed the random clothes aside.  The squeal of delight as she discovered that in fact I had not disappeared' from the face of the Earth pretty much made up for the fact that I had given away a pretty awesome spot to escape when the mood strikes.  As I pulled my little munchkin up onto the bed to give her big hugs and be on the receiving end of a snot-filled kiss, I realized that although my moves were fast enough, and my camouflaging spot-on for hiding in the 'wild', my mommy instinct overtakes my ability to be still and wait patiently.  I could never be a cheetah.


Randy arrived home late Friday evening to the squeals and delight of everyone in the house, but none so much as me.  As stoked as I was to see my handsome hubs, I was equally excited by the fact that I now had an opportunity for some 'freedom'.  So, Saturday morning, I made an appointment to get a more-than-embarassingly-so-needed haircut.  I don't have a single clue as to where to go for a reputable stylist, and I knew I didn't want to dish out a huge chunk of change since we're being money conscious (not to mention that since I've become a full-time mommy, my style of choice usually integrates a little black elastic in some capacity.  (On my 'less-than-fancy' days, I don a stylish hat and two low pigtails.  Those days were becoming more frequent as the search for a hairstylist stretched on).  

Based on the week I had, and the feelings of desperation that surged through me as I ached for some alone time that didn't involve hiding in a pile of clean laundry, I relied on Yelp to guide me to a reasonably priced, positively reviewed spot that was just up the road in the shopping center I frequent. How I'd missed this place before was beyond me, but I kind of wish I had seen it beforehand to give it the 'once over' to see if it's a place I can see myself frequenting.  But, I had none of that, so I just relied on the words on the screen of my iPhone and made an appointment.

I won't say that I had an awful experience, nor did I receive a terrible haircut.  It's not like I wanted anything fancy...just a trim and style to clean up the stereotypical SAHM look that I swore I'd never let myself fall into.  (Calm down...not bashing SAHMs...just acknowledging and finding humor in the stereotypes that develop from the nay-sayers of the job).  I am saying, however, that the search continues for a place I can call 'home' in terms of my haircut-and-color needs.  It was an interesting experience, one where I quickly had to adapt the way I described my desired look to someone for whom English was not their first language.  Communication has never really been a problem for me, however I could not get the stylist to understand what I was saying, even with the use of the picture I had pulled up on my phone, courtesy of Pinterest.  Thankfully, one of his co-workers came to his rescue (actually, my rescue) and described what I wanted and his look of confusion relaxed into a slightly more comfortable expression.  He motioned for me to come over and sit down in the chair.  As I walked past other clients, each in their various states of beautification--wet locks having their ends snipped, wild and messy tresses being blown dry, or alien-esque hair being tinted with color and wrapped with foil--I took note of the fact that each client's cape featured some sort of animal print.  Zebras, giraffes, and tigers flanked the walkway back to my chair.  As I sat down, the stylist spun me around and draped my cape around me, so he could begin his work.  I was just wrapping up a text to Randy while he did this, so when I looked into the mirror at my reflection, I had to laugh out loud.

I was a freakin' cheetah.

this momma cheetah and I are kindred spirits

Monday, February 4, 2013

Curled toes

It's part of our family tradition at dinner to go around the table, sharing what the worst part and best part of our day was.  The kids have become pretty good at starting the discussion themselves, and it's adorable (and sometimes thought-provoking) to hear what it is they're holding onto in their memory banks.

In conjunction with this tradition, they've also become a bit of a fan of my 'stories'.  It never fails that I have some sort of experience at the store (or other errand-style place) that I find necessary to share/vent/laugh/complain about when I return home, or back to the truck where Randy is waiting with the kids.  I don't think it's because my life is 'so unfortunate' that I encounter these types of strange occurrences (most of which are involve a person who is rude/oblivious/awkward/etc), but because 'I think like a writer', I happen to take note of the world around me in a way that results in having a story to tell.

Anyhow...the kids, especially Gavin, have become accustomed to asking me if I have a story to share, and then wait with baited breath as I describe the events as they unfold.

Here is today's story:

Raegan is in the midst of self-potty training.  I'm encouraging, but all the while keeping my realistic mindset that she isn't quite 2, and she's got a very distinct '2 year old personality'.  (translation: I'm not really sold on the idea of this potty training thing panning out until at least summer)  <deeper translation: I'm still changing diapers with the same frequency I was before, only now I'm peppering in some additional cleaning as she piddles on carpets, the couch, tile floors, and the comfy leather chair in which I am currently sitting>

Today, I was changing a diaper that required to be immediately disposed of in the outside trash receptacle.  A crazy Texas storm rolled through earlier, so the grass was damp.  Randy's slides not only kept my tootsies dry, but offered 'protection' from any worms, roly poly bugs, or other creepy crawlies that might inhabit my backyard, basking in the damp humidity of a Texas afternoon.  They did not, however, provide any sort of repose from the creature I was about to encounter.

As I opened the back door to head back in the house after I jogged back from the garbage can (you never know just what Raegan could have gotten into in that short period of time!), my eyes were drawn to the red doormat at the threshold meant to serve as a 'catchall' for wet/dirty doggie paws and kid feet.

Not today.  Today, the red rug apparently decided to play the role of a 'red carpet', rolled out for a most particularly unwanted guest in our home.

ignore the dog-hair laden doormat--at least it's doing its job! 

Monday is vacuuming day...however after the events of this afternoon, we're pushing it to tomorrow!

Just seeing these pictures again is giving me a relapse of the response I had when I first saw this little *friend* earlier.  

I screamed.  I made a sound similar to what I would assume a donkey dying in a most tragic and painful way would sound like.  I instantaneously tucked my toes, like a turtle retreating into his shell when threatened.  I blurted several obscenities that I'll most likely need to de-program Raegan of at a later date.  And, I peed a little.  

Yeah, I know that last bit might be something I could have easily 'kept to myself'...but everyone has something in this world that can conjure up the same response I had to 'Mr. Freaksmethehellout'.

At this point, I didn't quite care what Raegan was getting into, my number one priority was to get this little guy the hell out of my kitchen, out of my house, out of my back yard, and (in an ideal world), out of my memory.  

My eyes never left him, even though the sight of him made me shudder, wince, and whimper.  There was no way he was getting into my house one creepy toe more than he already had intruded, so I thought fast and in my bravest voice possible called out (in a loud whisper), "Brynn...canyoubringmommythebroom?"  It took her like an hour to go to the pantry and locate the GIANT GREEN HANDLED BROOM (seriously, what the hell?  They can play with that damn thing all the time, scattering rogue dog hairs all around my freshly mopped floors, but in a time of life and death <maybe not really...but still...>, she suddenly becomes aloof and has no recollection of what color it is, let alone what the hell a broom is!!?!?)

*Finally* the broom arrives, but rather than sticking the handle out horizontally, to prevent me from having to put on foot closer to this nasty guest, she opts for a vertical pass which means with her short arms I had to step a foot onto the threshold, thus threatening my 'friend' and causing him to squirm a few more inches into the house.  

I snatched the broom and began sweeping him toward the door, but in a strategic fashion because I was in the doorway and wanted no parts of his scaly self coming toward me.  It was obvious at this point I was a geometry failure, because my angles were all wrong and the little bugger escaped my broom bristles and scurried his ass into my kitchen, under the table and then under my coffee bar.  He stopped.  He stared.  I screamed (more).  I swept the broom to the right, in an attempt to guide him out and closer to the door, when he came out and began CLIMBING THE LEG OF THE CHAIR.  I wigged.  No way was this little creature climbing onto the table where I fed my family!  Frantically sweeping downward, Mr. Scales fell to the floor and headed for the dog bowl, where he ran through the dog's water, behind their food bowl, and followed the molding around the breakfast nook toward the back door.  I continued sweeping and squealing, squealing and sweeping until he was outside.  Inside.  Outside. did he come back inside if I was in the house, and the door most likely closed, you ask?  Oh, that's simple.  Our previous homeowners installed a storm door on the back door, and since we've moved in, we keep telling each other how much we hate it and how we need to replace it.  It's on our list of home adjustments, however we haven't gotten to it just yet.  Anyhow, their 'awesome installation job' left an ridiculous gap that just last night, Randy was joking could allow a squirrel to enter the house.  (Oh lord, if a squirrel got into the house!)

note: the ridiculous gap.
(side note: my turtle-esque toes.  they've been in that position since seeing the lizard)

Now that the little bugger was (thankfully) outside, I was determined to remove him from the yard entirely, however in my spastic response to 'only a little lizard' (according to my husband), I swept Mr. Camouflage into the grass, where, you guessed it...he camouflaged.  

I stared, and stared, and stared at the grass.  Finally, after what felt like another hour, I spied the little bugger and began my frantic sweeping once more.  Only this time, instead of making progress, I was just making him wiggle down into the grass for protection from the lunatic wielding the broom.  

Eventually, I mustered up the courage to sweep him onto the dustpan.  This took all of the courage I had left (what if he climbed out of the pan and up my arm?!?!).  I compressed the bristles of the broom against the dustpan (not too hard...the thought of squishing him to death was nearly as pee-inducing as watching him squiggle in my house), and ran nearly as fast as he could to the fence.  I hurled everything over the fence...broom, dustpan, and the (most likely terrified) lizard.  Several squeals, full body shudders, and even curlier' toe curls later, I decided to go retrieve my broom and dustpan, for fear that one of the lizard's friends was waiting in the wings to take advantage of the door gap, and I'd need my trusty broom.  I mustered up this tiny shred of courage that apparently was out to lunch earlier, and clicked the gate open.  I stood on my curled tip toes (ballerinas would have been jealous), and made my way to the resting place of my weapon of choice.  A quick, but thorough once-over and I realized it was lizard-free.  I considered searching for the lizard, but a quick recall of the amount of time I spent staring at grass earlier changed my tune, so I grabbed my dustpan and broom and my feet barely hit the ground as I bolted back inside (making sure to scan the threshold as I entered).  

My heart was pounding, palms sweating, toes still curled, and body involuntarily shuddering.  Only then, did I become aware that I was scarcely breathing, and so I took a minute to stand (far away from the door), and *try* to calm myself down.

Where were the girls during this fiasco?  They were watching as best they could from the safety of the living room window.  Raegan was repeatedly asking "is it?  is it?", while Brynn couldn't decide if she should be scared, or think it was cool that there was a lizard in the house.  I think the jury's still out, because she didn't seem to have the innate fear I did...her's was more forced, in what I think was an attempt to make me feel like less of a complete and total moron for reacting the way I did.  Just what I wanted from my 4 year old.  Pity. goes without saying that I will not be traipsing around the backyard sans footwear anytime soon, because if that little bugger can trigger such response without touching me, you can imagine what would happen if he skittered across my bare feet.  I told Randy I'm contemplating one of those 'I've fallen and I can't get up' medic response necklaces should such instance ever occur.  And I'm not being a smartass.  I would literally become immobilized, and need to see medical attention for some sort of cardiac distress.  

Now...if you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom and then ice my sore (and still-curled) toes.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Wait, what was I writing about?

I had a post in mind as I woke up this morning (at the *glorious* hour of 7:00 a.m.--thankyousoverymuchRaegan!).  I wanted to sit down in the quasi-quiet of a weekend morning, accompanied by the background noise of Saturday cartoons and crunching cereal (the kids choose that option so they can snuggle in on the couch with their bowls.  open containers of milk outside the boundaries of the mop-able kitchen floor are an obvious 'not gonna happen' in our house, as is the case in any household with children, I'm sure).  I wanted to sit for a few minutes and record some thoughts and memories from this past week, adding to the collection of posts for my kids.

My Keurig just finished brewing a big cup of hazelnut deliciousness, and I had a big bowl of fruit and granola, and the unmistakable sound of cartoons and crunchy cereal was filling the family room.  I padded into the office, took comfort in the leather office chair, and within a few clicks and keystrokes, a blank canvas eagerly awaited my words, like a coffee cup eagerly awaits to be filled with the delicious elixir of life for  (which reminds me...I need to go brew another cup)

The scene was set for a quick few minutes of stolen time, precious minutes where I could be *alone* and clear my head of the ideas I had for my post before getting ready for the day and weekend.  And that's when I remembered.




Although they just happened, I have essentially no recollection of the timeline of the events that disrupted my writing.  All I know is that it's an hour and a half past when I first saw that blank screen, and to be perfectly honest, I have no flipping clue what the hell it was that I wanted to write about when I woke up at 7:00.

What I can tell you about this morning is this:
I cut strawberries.  An entire patch-worth.  I poured milk into sippy cups, and more milk when those sippy cups were empty.  I cleaned up a bowl of dried cereal that *magically* fell all over the floor.  I chased the dogs back into the crate 2 times, because they were annoying the kids as they tried to eat--nevermind that they were the ones who let them out in the first place).  I responded to a cry for help on a game on the i-Pad that left me hunched, randomly prodding colorful stimuli on the screen in the fashion of a chimpanzee trying to figure out a rubix cube, only to be told 6 embarrassing minutes later that she was 'bored' with the game and would just play something else.  I fed my toddler nearly my entire bowl of fruit and granola (even though she had her own bowl of crunchy cereal--and two bowls of strawberries.  Scratch that.  She had one bowl of strawberries and one bowl that she graciously smeared on our couch--only the lighter colored pillows of course--before feeding to the dogs).  I broke up a fight that involved one child calling another child 'poop'.  Speaking of that, I put a toddler into her diaper 6 times.  I chased a naked toddler around the couch 4 times.  I'm currently washing 2 parts of our couch because the diaper-less toddler who has randomly decided to self-potty train this week peed *all* over them.  And not just peed...the 'Mighty Mississippi' has got nothing on her.  I put the toddler back into her diaper for a seventh time, only to hear the unmistakable sound of the tabs being loosened just as I settled back down into the office chair for the 85th time today.  I threw my hands up in defeat and let the naked toddler win, figuring that I have enough cleaning products to take care of where ever her next accident may be (and, if not to clean up the accident, at least the fumes might give me a little bit of reprise from the madness that is my life!--I'm totally need having my kids read this someday thinking that's how their mom sought sanity!  <it's called wine, kids.  wine is where mommy seeks sanity!>).  I made 3 cups of coffee, and therefore went to the bathroom twice (and not on the couch, thank you very much!).

And so, two hours after I sat down to write whatever the hell it was I had to say, my body is exhausted, my mind is scrambled eggs (mmm...sounds good after giving my breakfast away), my washer signal is beeping, and my day is *only just beginning*!  Oh, yeah...and my toddler is still naked.  Excuse me while I go on a scavenger hunt for piddle puddles.

Happy Saturday!  Here's just a few smiles to get me through...

no caption needed.

mission: accomplished

this is for any mom...not just us SAHMs!!
*and in the time it took me to upload these...I already have a puddle waiting for me by the front door!  (maybe if I keep typing, hubs will take over and clean this one up....)

(hey kids!  have you seen mommy's cleaning supplies?!)